Here’s something you might not know about me: I write poetry. A lot of it. Like a new poem almost every week. About once a year I write something that’s not terrible.

Here’s something else you might not know about me: Early this year I had surgery. I was on some pretty serious drugs for a period of time after that, and I don’t remember much of it (except for the part where I was being chased by the Korean mafia, but I can’t be sure of the accuracy of that). I was flipping through my poetry notebook, and I found something I’d written during that period of time. I swear I have zero recollection of writing this. But it’s in my notebook, in my own handwriting, so I don’t doubt its authenticity. It’s oddly lucid for something scribbled in a hurry while on the run from the Korean mafia.

A House Made of Poems

Everyone lives in a house made of poems.

It might be
A house of brick,
with lots of grass,
And black iron gates
through which guests pass.

Or it might be
A city penthouse,
A j ig sa wpu zzle of concrete and steel.
Each room with a 360 view.

A shack in a row
where me and my bro
walk down the street
in search of our beats

My house is is barely a poem:
A sleeping bag
with stars above me.
Only punctuation marks
between me and God.


  1. Chuck says:

    As always Tom you have lots to say. So much good stuff inside you, keep it up always enjoy reading and listening to you. Forgive my punctuation errors.


  2. Mary says:

    wow, Tom, I really love this! Especially the last line – very haunting and very beautiful.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *